


i long to see you smile

by leapylion3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, F/F, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Masturbation, Sexual Experimentation, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:39:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2052168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/pseuds/leapylion3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon is Sansa's only friend and ally in King's Landing; with time, they find themselves depending on one another more and more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i long to see you smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phoenixflame88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflame88/gifts).



> based on the prompt for schattenfalke on livejournal for the got exchange: Sansa/Theon. Ned took Theon to King’s Landing along with Sansa and Arya. After Ned’s execution, Theon and Sansa are captives. What happens? Can be romantic or platonic. Bonus points if this affects the political landscape in unexpected ways. Other Greyjoys are totally welcome but by no means a must.

Theon is the one who holds her when she cries, when she weeps for Arya and Robb, for her mother and father. She doesn't allow herself to shed a tear in front of anyone else apart from him, and even that is rare. She has no friends here, no allies, no  _family_. All she has is Theon.  
  
He is equally distraught when Lord Stark is executed, and he holds her and strokes her hair and kisses her face. His shoulders shake with silent sobs, and he does his best to remain calm, to remain strong for her. He mourns the loss of Eddard, the man who had been more of a father to him than his own, whom he scarcely knows.  
  
He stays in her chambers that night until she falls into an uneasy sleep, and when she wakes up at dawn to an empty room, she cries once more, for he has left her, now, too.

* * *

"I should be with him," Theon tells her in the godswood one day. "I should be marching into battle right behind him."  
  
 _I should be with him, too_ , Sansa thinks, staring at the heart tree, envisioning Robb's red hair, so much like hers, and his wide grin and bright blue eyes.  _In Winterfell. With Father and Arya and Jeyne Poole, and all the others._  
  
She clasps her hands in her lap and shuts her eyes to pray.  
  
 _You can come too, Theon._

* * *

He goes to the brothel as often as possible now, to escape the Lannisters and bed an easy woman and get as drunk as he's able. He always comes back stinking of wine, sweat and sex, and he is somehow angrier than before. He never hurts her, but he comes into her chambers and throws her belongings all around, slamming them against the wall and knocking them to the ground. She never makes any move to stop him, only sits and waits and tries to swallow the lump in her throat.  
"How can you stand this?" she asks one day, referring to the constant drinking and inevitable hangovers. He's sunken in on himself on the floor, holding his pounding head in his hands.  
  
"Stand  _what_?" he spits. "Being a  _hostage_?" His voice is full of venom, and a cold block of ice settles in the pit of her belly. "In case you haven't noticed,  _my lady_ , I've been  _your_  hostage for most of my fucking  _life_!" He throws one of her vases against the wall, and it shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. (He had given her the flowers in it.)  
  
She does not flinch.  
  
"I'm used to being a prisoner by now," he slurs, hiccuping.  
  
He slams the door behind him.

* * *

Joffrey is not pleased when he hears that Robb has been crowned King in the North.

She is beaten by members of the Kingsguard, and she is coughing up blood when Theon and Lord Tyrion storm into the throne room.  
  
Theon covers her shoulders with his cloak while Tyrion yells at Joffrey in front of the whole court, humiliating the boy king. The dwarf finally gives Sansa and Theon leave, and Theon scoops her up in his arms and carries her to her chambers.  
  
He does not apologize for what he said yesterday, but there is a silent understanding between them. He cleans her wounds and helps her change into her nightgown; no words are spoken between them until he tucks her into bed.  
  
"I will kill all of them for you."  
  
He kisses her gently, and this time, he does not leave her alone, even when she falls asleep.

* * *

Slowly, she walks down the empty hallways, on her way to the library. The steel of the knife in her boot chills her to the bone, and she wants to rip it out of there, but she knows why Theon had insisted upon it. (He'd taken to accompanying her as often as possible, concealing blades and poisons and more all over his lithe frame.)  
  
A loud, almost pained groan resonates in the deserted hall, and she freezes in her tracks. Moaning follows- distinctly feminine-, and Sansa feels her curiosity pique. Tentatively, she tiptoes towards the source of the ruckus, and as she gets closer, the sounds of heavy breathing and the slap of skin on skin join the couple's noises of pleasure. Sansa pokes her head around the darkened corner, her breath catching in her throat. The girl's back is towards Sansa and she is pushed up against the wall, her nails scraping the stone. The man's fingers hold her skirts up as he repeatedly thrusts into her, his head thrown back in ecstasy.  
  
Sansa takes a step forward to get a better view, in hopes of fighting out who the two figures are. She is tumbling suddenly, gasping, her skirt having caught on the brick. She lands on her elbows and knees with a grunt. The girl doesn't notice, too lost in her pleasure, but the man whips his head in Sansa's direction instantly.  
  
She refrains from squeaking out his name.  
  
He continues to slam in and out of his lover, never taking his eyes off of Sansa. A strange heat spreads under her skin, and she wants so badly to look away, but something keeps her right where she is.  
  
He trembles as his release takes over him, and Sansa swears that she hears her name fall from his lips.

* * *

"Do you fancy him?" Shae, her handmaiden, asks, combing through Sansa's thick red hair.  
  
"Hmm? Who, Joffrey?"  
  
Shae chuckles and shakes her head. "You would have to be crazy to fancy  _him_." She squeezes Sansa's shoulder, and the two share a smile in the mirror. "I don't think you are  _that_  crazy."  
  
"If not Joffrey, then who?"  
  
"Theon!"  
  
Sansa blushes fiercely. She had not spoken to him since catching him with that serving girl. (It is simply out of embarrassment, not jealousy, she tells herself.)  
  
"He is very handsome," Shae admits.  
  
"Yes," Sansa murmurs sadly, "he is."

* * *

"I'm sorry if you felt uncomfortable, when... Well, you know when." It is the first thing he says to her in a fortnight, and Sansa feels that strange heat once more, the one that creeps under her skin and seeps into her bloodstream until she feels like she might explode.  
  
"It was my fault." Her voice sounds foreign in her ears. "I shouldn't have intruded."

Theon leers down at her, and she is relieved that nothing has changed between them. (Though there is a darkness in his eyes, and his gaze sweeps over her body for longer than usual.) "Do not worry, my lady. You're always free to come and watch."

* * *

Sansa can't sleep that night.  
  
She tosses and turns and her nightclothes are soaked in sweat and the  _thump thump thump_  of her heart pulses through her. The throbbing is most insistent between her legs; she squeezes her eyes shut and clutches at the bedsheets but that somehow only intensifies the feeling. Gingerly, she slides a hand inside her smallclothes, and gasps at the strange wetness she finds.  
  
 _You're always free to come and watch._  
  
Her thighs tighten instinctively and she begins to rub herself, chewing on her bottom lip in an attempt to keep quiet. She thinks back to Theon and the serving girl, but Sansa imagines herself in the woman's place; she lets out a tiny moan, a shiver running up her spine. Theon would kiss her and tell her how beautiful she looked, how good she felt, and he would touch her down there with expert fingers; he would do a better job than she is doing now.

The coil inside of her springs, and a warmth floods her entire body, making her toes curl and her spine arch. She cries out his name and settles back onto the pillows after, breathing heavily.  
She won't be able to look him in the eye after that.

* * *

Swords clash outside her chambers, and she hears screams of anguish and the  _clink_ ing of metal as the men in armour fall down. She should mourn, but she knows they are Lannister soldiers, not Northern men, so she waits silently for Robb to burst in and whisk her away. He will be here soon.  
Theon had arrived at the beginning of the ambush, locking the door behind him and setting up a barricade. "I'm here to protect you," he'd said, "in case anything happens." He hides his blades no longer, but wears them proudly on his belt and in his hands. A bow and a quiver rest upon his back, something he has not held for the longest time. It looks so natural on him; he is a true Greyjoy.  
  
"I knew Robb would come," she whispers.  
  
"And he brought some friends with him. Renly and Stannis are here too." Sansa had heard how large their armies were, and teamed up with Robb's, they must have close to two hundred thousand warriors.  
  
When someone knocks on the door, it is not Robb who has come to save them, but a tall and handsome man with curly brown hair. He is sweaty and soaked in blood, but his smile is still somehow comforting. "Lady Stark, Lord Greyjoy," he says, slightly out of breath. "My name is Ser Loras Tyrell." Sansa's heart pounds. "The battle is over. We've won. I'll take you to your brother."  
  
Theon and Sansa are led to the throne room, which is eerily empty. They walk up the steps to the throne, but neither of them make any move to sit upon it. If Sansa were to have it her way, she would order the smiths to melt it down. (She would reforge Ice with it, along with new blades for Arya and Theon and Robb.)  
  
The doors burst open, and Robb storms in, with Renly and Stannis behind him. They each carry a bag, and one at a time, they dump it at her feet. Lord Tywin's head rolls out of Stannis' bag, Renly presents Cersei's, and Joffrey's own lands right in front of her. Robb gives her a crooked, almost evil grin- he clearly took pleasure in killing the boy king- and for a brief moment, Sansa does not recognize her own brother.  
  
"We have the Kingslayer and the Imp in chains," Renly informs them. "Myrcella will remain in Dorne, and Tommen is hereby a ward of the crown."  
  
"What now?" Sansa asks. Theon's hand finds hers, and he squeezes it gently.  
  
"Now, dear sister," Robb says, dropping his sword with a  _clang_ , "we go home."

* * *

They get word of Balon Greyjoy's death while they riding for Winterfell.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sansa tells Theon, hugging him tightly. He does not seem terribly fazed by the news, but he returns her embrace.  
  
"I'm Lord of Pyke now," he whispers into her hair. "I'm Lord of the Iron Islands." He trembles against her. "I have to go there immediately."  
  
Sansa swallows thickly. "Do you have to leave so soon?"  _Don't leave me, Theon, please._  
  
"Come with me."  
  
"What? I can't-"  
  
"Marry me."  
  
It is the second time he kisses her, but it is nothing like the first. Now he crushes his lips to hers and searches her mouth with his tongue. His fingers knot in her hair and he presses her flush against him.  
  
"Marry me," he repeats, his voice thick, and she whimpers softly.  
  
"Yes."

* * *

Lady Margaery makes the trip up north with them, while King Stannis and her husband, Renly, the Hand, patch things up in King's Landing. Margaery is beautiful and kind and gentle, everything a perfect noblewoman should be. She and Sansa grow very close on the journey, sharing a carriage and, more often than not, a tent and a bed. They sip wine and giggle and talk until the early hours of the morning, and when Margaery leaves, Sansa misses Arya more than ever. Margaery is like a sister to her, but she and Arya couldn't be more different; Margaery will never replace her Arya.  
  
“Are you nervous for your wedding?" Margaery asks her one night, rolling over in their bed to look at her. The candlelight is dim but it highlights Margaery's features wonderfully.  
  
"I-I suppose so." Sansa lowers her voice. "I'm just worried that I won't... _please_  him." Margaery laughs at that, and Sansa hits her shoulder lightly. "I'm serious! He's so...experienced, and I'm not."  
  
"I could teach you."  
  
" _W-what_?"  
  
"I practiced with my cousin Elinor before my wedding to Renly." She smiles sweetly. "It's quite fun." Margaery is so warm and friendly and inviting that Sansa cannot say no.  
  
They kiss for what seems like hours, slowly peeling off their clothes and exploring each others' bodies with curiosity and wonder. Margaery does things with her mouth and hands that Sansa would never even  _think_  of, and Sansa is trembling and sucking in air desperately by the time Margaery is done. Margaery's grin is catlike as she wipes her mouth clean, and she is so positively smug that Sansa wants to crush her lips to the brunette's until she is just as loose-limbed and breathless as Sansa.  
  
"You'll have to tell me how it goes on your wedding night."  
  
In one swift movement, Sansa has Margaery on her back, and she's straddling her hips, beaming down at her. "I will give you every detail."

* * *

On the day of her wedding, three horses lope into Winterfell with a rider each. At first, when Sansa peers down from her window, she dismisses it and thinks they are simply refugees. However, Robb screams out "Arya!" and one of the riders sprints into his arms.  
  
"My lady, your wedding is in an hour and you're not even ready!" Shae, who has joined her up north, exclaims, holding Sansa's veil in her hands.  
  
"I must go see my sister!" she shouts back over her shoulder as she dashes out of her room and into the courtyard. Theon would probably see her before the wedding, which is bad luck, but that is the furthest thing from her mind. She keeps running, her knuckles white as she grips hoists her skirts up, and there are tears streaming down her cheeks but she is grinning so widely her face may very well split in two.  
  
"Sansa!" Arya gasps as the redhead picks her up and twirls her around. "Why are you-"  
  
"You're just in time for my wedding."  
  
"A  _wedding_? Who in the seven hells are you-"  
  
"Theon! I'm going to be Lady Greyjoy!" That title gives her more pleasure than Queen of the Seven Kingdoms ever did. "Oh, gods, I missed you, little sister." She plants kisses all over Arya's face, and while the younger girl would normally cringe and pull away, she only hugs Sansa back harder.

* * *

The wedding is a much less extravagant one than Sansa had always dreamed of, but it is perfect. She and Theon marry under the heart tree, and he kisses her so sweetly and so gently, as if she will break into a million pieces if he is not careful with her. "We will get married good and proper when we go to Pyke," he whispers as the people around them clap. "Right by the sea, in the eyes of the Drowned God." He brings her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. "You are my rock wife now."  
  
Sansa beams and clutches the gold and black cloak tighter around her.

* * *

Robb refuses to let them have a traditional bedding ceremony- "I will  _not_  have my sister paraded around like a piece of meat!"-, so when the celebrations are dying down, Theon takes her hand, bids everyone goodnight, and leads her up to their chambers.  
  
Slowly, she takes off her clothes, and he has the grace to look away. He pours them each a glass of wine, and she finishes hers in one swig, letting it burn down her throat. He watches her, his eyes drinking her in, and she feels naked, despite wearing her corset and smallclothes; she blushes and crosses her arms over her chest.  
  
"Don't be afraid, please," he murmurs, carefully moving her arms to her sides. "You are beautiful, Sansa, truly." He cups her cheeks and kisses her tenderly. "We do not have to go through with this if you don't want to."  
  
"No!" she blurts out. "I-I mean, I  _do_ , I  _want_  to..." Boldly, she strips out of the rest of her clothing and drops them to the ground. It is the wine, she knows; she can feel it coursing through her veins and giving her liquid courage. She stands proudly before him with a newfound sense of confidence.  
  
He drags his tongue over his bottom lip as he openly gapes at her. Instead of undressing himself, though, he scoops her up and places her in the middle of the bed. He hovers over her, and takes his time to kiss every single inch of her body. When he finally enters her and they make love, she closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of him. For the first time, it clicks in her mind that she is  _home_ ; she is back in Winterfell with her mother and Robb and  _Arya_ , and Bran and Rickon are bigger and more handsome than ever.  
  
She kisses her husband deeply, and he tastes of old memories, of lemoncakes and falling snow and midnight dips in the hot springs.  
  
He tastes of home.


End file.
